Rangering

No State in the Union was ever called upon to meet and deal with
the criminal element as was Texas. She was border territory upon her
admission to the sisterhood of States.

An area equal to four ordinary States, and a climate that permitted
of outdoor life the year round, made it a desirable rendezvous for
criminals. The sparsely settled condition of the country, the flow of
immigration being light until the seventies, was an important factor.
The fugitives from justice of the older States with a common impulse
turned toward this empire of isolation. Europe contributed her quota,
more particularly from the south, bringing with them the Mafia and
vendetta. Once it was the Ultima Thule of the criminal western world.
From the man who came for not building a church to the one who had
taken human life, the catalogue of crime was fully represented.

Humorous writers tell us that it was a breach of good manners to ask
a man his name, or what State he was from, or to examine the brand on
his horse very particularly. It can be safely said that there was a
great amount of truth mingled with the humor. Some of these fugitives
from justice became good citizens, but the majority sooner or later
took up former callings.

Along with this criminal immigration came the sturdy settler, the
man intent on building a home and establishing a fireside. Usually
following lines of longitude, he came from other Southern States. He
also brought with him the fortitude of the pioneer that reclaims the
wilderness and meets any emergency that confronts him. To meet and
deal with this criminal element as a matter of necessity soon became
an important consideration. His only team of horses was frequently
stolen. His cattle ran off their range, their ear-marks altered and
brands changed. Frequently it was a band of neighbors, together in
a posse, who followed and brought to bay the marauders. It was an
unlucky moment for a horse-thief when he was caught in possession of
another man's horse. The impromptu court of emergency had no sentiment
in regard to passing sentence of death. It was a question of guilt,
and when that was established, Judge Lynch passed sentence.

As the State advanced, the authorities enlisted small companies of men
called Rangers. The citizens' posse soon gave way to this organized
service. The companies, few in number at first, were gradually
increased until the State had over a dozen companies in the field.
These companies numbered anywhere from ten to sixty men. It can be
said with no discredit to the State that there were never half enough
companies of men for the work before them.

There was a frontier on the south and west of over two thousand miles
to be guarded. A fair specimen of the large things in that State was a
shoe-string congressional district, over eleven hundred miles long. To
the Ranger, then, is all credit due for guarding this western frontier
against the Indians and making life and the possession of property a
possibility. On the south was to be met the bandit, the smuggler, and
every grade of criminal known to the code.

A generation had come and gone before the Ranger's work was fairly
done. The emergency demanded brave men. They were ready. Not
necessarily born to the soil, as a boy the guardian of the frontier
was expert in the use of firearms, and in the saddle a tireless rider.
As trailers many of them were equal to hounds. In the use of that
arbiter of the frontier, the six-shooter, they were artists. As a
class, never before or since have their equals in the use of that arm
come forward to question this statement.

The average criminal, while familiar with firearms, was as badly
handicapped as woman would be against man. The Ranger had no equal.
The emergency that produced him no longer existing, he will never
have a successor. Any attempt to copy the original would be hopeless
imitation. He was shot at at short range oftener than he received his
monthly wage. He admired the criminal that would fight, and despised
one that would surrender on demand. He would nurse back to life a
dead-game man whom his own shot had brought to earth, and give a
coward the chance to run any time if he so desired.

He was compelled to lead a life in the open and often descend to the
level of the criminal. He had few elements in his makeup, and but a
single purpose; but that one purpose--to rid the State of crime--he
executed with a vengeance. He was poorly paid for the service
rendered. Frequently there was no appropriation with which to pay him;
then he lived by rewards and the friendship of ranchmen.

The Ranger always had a fresh horse at his command,--no one thought of
refusing him this. Rust-proof, rugged, and tireless, he gave the State
protection for life and property. The emergency had produced the man.

"Here, take my glass and throw down on that grove of timber yonder,
and notice if there is any sign of animal life to be seen," said
Sergeant "Smoky" C----, addressing "Ramrod," a private in Company X
of the Texas Rangers. The sergeant and the four men had been out on
special duty, and now we had halted after an all night's ride looking
for shade and water,--the latter especially. We had two prisoners,
(horse-thieves), some extra saddle stock, and three pack mules.

It was an hour after sun-up. We had just come out of the foothills,
where the Brazos has its source, and before us lay the plains, dusty
and arid. This grove of green timber held out a hope that within it
might be found what we wanted. Eyesight is as variable as men, but
Ramrod's was known to be reliable for five miles with the naked eye,
and ten with the aid of a good glass. He dismounted at the sergeant's
request, and focused the glass on this oasis, and after sweeping the
field for a minute or so, remarked languidly, "There must be water
there. I can see a band of antelope grazing out from the grove. Hold
your mules! Something is raising a dust over to the south. Good! It's
cattle coming to the water."

While he was covering the field with his glass, two of the boys were
threatening with eternal punishment the pack mules, which showed
an energetic determination to lie down and dislodge their packs by
rolling.

"Cut your observations short as possible there, Ramrod, or there will
be re-packing to do. Mula, you hybrid son of your father, don't you
dare to lie down!"

But Ramrod's observations were cut short at sight of the cattle, and
we pushed out for the grove, about seven miles distant. As we
rode this short hour's ride, numerous small bands of antelope were
startled, and in turn stood and gazed at us in bewilderment.

"I'm not tasty," said Sergeant Smoky, "but I would give the preference
this morning to a breakfast of a well-roasted side of ribs of a nice
yearling venison over the salt hoss that the Lone Star State furnishes
this service. Have we no hunters with us?"

"Let me try," begged a little man we called "Cushion-foot." What his
real name was none of us knew. The books, of course, would show some
name, and then you were entitled to a guess. He was as quiet as a
mouse, as reliable as he was quiet, and as noiseless in his movements
as a snake. One of the boys went with him, making quite a detour from
our course, but always remaining in sight. About two miles out from
the grove, we sighted a small band of five or six antelope, who soon
took fright and ran to the nearest elevation. Here they made a stand
about half a mile distant. We signaled to our hunters, who soon
spotted them and dismounted. We could see Cushion sneaking through the
short grass like a coyote, "Conajo" leading the horses, well hidden
between them. We held the antelopes' attention by riding around in a
circle, flagging them. Several times Cushion lay flat, and we thought
he was going to risk a long shot. Then he would crawl forward like a
cat, but finally came to his knee. We saw the little puff, the band
squatted, jumping to one side far enough to show one of their number
down and struggling in the throes of death.

"Good long shot, little man," said the sergeant, "and you may have the
choice of cuts, just so I get a rib."

We saw Conajo mount and ride up on a gallop, but we held our course
for the grove. We were busy making camp when the two rode in with a
fine two-year-old buck across the pommel of Cushion's saddle. They
had only disemboweled him, but Conajo had the heart as a trophy of the
accuracy of the shot, though Cushion hadn't a word to say. It was
a splendid heart shot. Conajo took it over and showed it to the two
Mexican prisoners. It was an object lesson to them. One said to the
other, "Es un buen tirador."

We put the prisoners to roasting the ribs, and making themselves
useful in general. One man guarded them at their work, while all the
others attended to the hobbling and other camp duties.

It proved to be a delightful camp. We aimed to stay until sunset, the
days being sultry and hot. Our appetites were equal to the breakfast,
and it was a good one.

"To do justice to an occasion like this," said Smoky as he squatted
down with about four ribs in his hand, "a man by rights ought to have
at least three fingers of good liquor under his belt. But then we
can't have all the luxuries of life in the far West; sure to be
something lacking."

"I never hear a man hanker for liquor," said Conajo, as he poured out
a tin cup of coffee, "but I think of an incident my father used to
tell us boys at home. He was sheriff in Kentucky before we moved to
Texas. Was sheriff in the same county for twelve years. Counties are
very irregular back in the old States. Some look like a Mexican brand.
One of the rankest, rabid political admirers my father had lived away
out on a spur of this county. He lived good thirty miles from the
county seat. Didn't come to town over twice a year, but he always
stopped, generally over night, at our house. My father wouldn't have
it any other way. Talk about thieves being chummy; why, these two we
have here couldn't hold a candle to that man and my father. I can see
them parting just as distinctly as though it was yesterday. He would
always abuse my father for not coming to see him. 'Sam,' he would
say,--my father's name was Sam,--'Sam, why on earth is it that
you never come to see me? I've heard of you within ten miles of my
plantation, and you have never shown your face to us once. Do you
think we can't entertain you? Why, Sam, I've known you since you
weren't big enough to lead a hound dog. I've known you since you
weren't knee to a grasshopper.'

"'Let me have a word,' my father would put in, for he was very mild
in speaking; 'let me have a word, Joe. I hope you don't think for a
moment that I wouldn't like to visit you; now do you?'

"'No, I don't think so, Sam, but you don't come. That's why I'm
complaining. You never have come in the whole ten years you've been
sheriff, and you know that we have voted for you to a man, in our
neck of the woods.' My father felt this last remark, though I think
he never realized its gravity before, but he took him by one hand, and
laying the other on his shoulder said, 'Joe, if I have slighted you
in the past, I'm glad you have called my attention to it. Now, let me
tell you the first time that my business takes me within ten miles
of your place I'll make it a point to reach your house and stay all
night, and longer if I can.'

"'That's all I ask, Sam,' was his only reply. Now I've learned lots
of the ways of the world since then. I've seen people pleasant to each
other, and behind their backs the tune changed. But I want to say
to you fellows that those two old boys were not throwing off on each
other--not a little bit. They meant every word and meant it deep. It
was months afterwards, and father had been gone for a week when he
came home. He told us about his visit to Joe Evans. It was winter
time, and mother and us boys were sitting around the old fireplace in
the evening. 'I never saw him so embarrassed before in my life,' said
father. 'I did ride out of my way, but I was glad of the chance. Men
like Joe Evans are getting scarce.' He nodded to us boys. 'It was
nearly dark when I rode up to his gate. He recognized me and came down
to the gate to meet me. "Howdy, Sam," was all he said. There was a
troubled expression in his face, though he looked well enough, but he
couldn't simply look me in the face. Just kept his eye on the ground.
He motioned for a nigger boy and said to him, "Take his horse." He
started to lead the way up the path, when I stopped him. "Look here,
Joe," I said to him. "Now, if there's anything wrong, anything likely
to happen in the family, I can just as well drop back on the pike and
stay all night with some of the neighbors. You know I'm acquainted all
around here." He turned in the path, and there was the most painful
look in his face I ever saw as he spoke: "Hell, no, Sam, there's
nothing wrong. We've got plenty to eat, plenty of beds, no end of
horse-feed, but by G----, Sam, there isn't a drop of whiskey on the
place!"'

"You see it was hoss and cabello, and Joe seemed to think the hoss
on him was an unpardonable offense. Salt? You'll find it in an empty
one-spoon baking-powder can over there. In those panniers that belong
to that big sorrel mule. Look at Mexico over there burying his fangs
in the venison, will you?"

Ramrod was on guard, but he was so hungry himself that he was good
enough to let the prisoners eat at the same time, although he kept
them at a respectable distance. He was old in the service, and had
gotten his name under a baptism of fire. He was watching a pass once
for smugglers at a point called Emigrant Gap. This was long before he
had come to the present company. At length the man he was waiting for
came along. Ramrod went after him at close quarters, but the fellow
was game and drew his gun. When the smoke cleared away, Ramrod had
brought down his horse and winged his man right and left. The smuggler
was not far behind on the shoot, for Ramrod's coat and hat showed he
was calling for him. The captain was joshing the prisoner about his
poor shooting when Ramrod brought him into camp and they were dressing
his wounds. "Well," said the fellow, "I tried to hard enough, but I
couldn't find him. He's built like a ramrod."

After breakfast was over we smoked and yarned. It would be two-hour
guards for the day, keeping an eye on the prisoners and stock, only
one man required; so we would all get plenty of sleep. Conajo had the
first guard after breakfast. "I remember once," said Sergeant Smoky,
as he crushed a pipe of twist with the heel of his hand, "we were
camped out on the 'Sunset' railway. I was a corporal at the time.
There came a message one day to our captain, to send a man up West on
that line to take charge of a murderer. The result was, I was sent by
the first train to this point. When I arrived I found that an
Irishman had killed a Chinaman. It was on the railroad, at a bridge
construction camp, that the fracas took place. There were something
like a hundred employees at the camp, and they ran their own
boarding-tent. They had a Chinese cook at this camp; in fact, quite a
number of Chinese were employed at common labor on the road.

"Some cavalryman, it was thought, in passing up and down from Fort
Stockton to points on the river, had lost his sabre, and one of this
bridge gang had found it. When it was brought into camp no one would
have the old corn-cutter; but this Irishman took a shine to it, having
once been a soldier himself. The result was, it was presented to
him. He ground it up like a machette, and took great pride in giving
exhibitions with it. He was an old man now, the storekeeper for the
iron supplies, a kind of trusty job. The old sabre renewed his
youth to a certain extent, for he used it in self-defense shortly
afterwards. This Erin-go-bragh--his name was McKay, I think--was in
the habit now and then of stealing a pie from the cook, and taking
it into his own tent and eating it there. The Chink kept missing his
pies, and got a helper to spy out the offender. The result was they
caught the old man red-handed in the act. The Chink armed himself with
the biggest butcher-knife he had and went on the warpath. He found the
old fellow sitting in his storeroom contentedly eating the pie. The
old man had his eyes on the cook, and saw the knife just in time to
jump behind some kegs of nuts and bolts. The Chink followed him with
murder in his eye, and as the old man ran out of the tent he picked
up the old sabre. Once clear of the tent he turned and faced him,
made only one pass, and cut his head off as though he were beheading
a chicken. They hadn't yet buried the Chinaman when I got there. I'm
willing to testify it was an artistic job. They turned the old man
over to me, and I took him down to the next station, where an old
alcalde lived,--Roy Bean by name. This old judge was known as 'Law
west of the Pecos,' as he generally construed the law to suit his own
opinion of the offense. He wasn't even strong on testimony. He was a
ranchman at this time, so when I presented my prisoner he only said,
'Killed a Chinese, did he? Well, I ain't got time to try the case
to-day. Cattle suffering for water, and three windmills out of repair.
Bring him back in the morning.' I took the old man back to the hotel,
and we had a jolly good time together that day. I never put a string
on him, only locked the door, but we slept together. The next morning
I took him before the alcalde. Bean held court in an outhouse, the
prisoner seated on a bale of flint hides. Bean was not only judge but
prosecutor, as well as counsel for the defense. 'Killed a Chinaman,
did you?'

"'I did, yer Honor,' was the prisoner's reply.

"I suggested to the court that the prisoner be informed of his rights,
that he need not plead guilty unless he so desired.

"'That makes no difference here,' said the court. 'Gentlemen, I'm busy
this morning. I've got to raise the piping out of a two-hundred-foot
well to-day,--something the matter with the valve at the bottom. I'll
just glance over the law a moment.'

"He rummaged over a book or two for a few moments and then said,
'Here, I reckon this is near enough. I find in the revised statute
before me, in the killing of a nigger the offending party was fined
five dollars. A Chinaman ought to be half as good as a nigger. Stand
up and receive your sentence. What's your name?'

"'Jerry McKay, your Honor.'

"Just then the court noticed one of the vaqueros belonging to the
ranch standing in the door, hat in hand, and he called to him in
Spanish, 'Have my horse ready, I'll be through here just in a minute.'

"'McKay,' said the court as he gave him a withering look, 'I'll fine
you two dollars and a half and costs. Officer, take charge of
the prisoner until it's paid!' It took about ten dollars to cover
everything, which I paid, McKay returning it when he reached his camp.
Whoever named that alcalde 'Law west of the Pecos' knew his man."

"I'll bet a twist of dog," said Ramrod, "that prisoner with the black
whiskers sabes English. Did you notice him paying strict attention to
Smoky's little talk? He reminds me of a fellow that crouched behind
his horse at the fight we had on the head of the Arroyo Colorado and
plugged me in the shoulder. What, you never heard of it? That's so,
Cushion hasn't been with us but a few months. Well, it was in '82,
down on the river, about fifty miles northwest of Brownsville. Word
came in one day that a big band of horse-thieves were sweeping the
country of every horse they could gather. There was a number of the
old Cortina's gang known to be still on the rustle. When this report
came, it found eleven men in camp. We lost little time saddling up,
only taking five days' rations with us, for they were certain to
recross the river before that time in case we failed to intercept
them. Every Mexican in the country was terrorized. All they could tell
us was that there was plenty of ladrones and lots of horses, 'muchos'
being the qualifying word as to the number of either.

"It was night before we came to their trail, and to our surprise they
were heading inland, to the north. They must have had a contract to
supply the Mexican army with cavalry horses. They were simply sweeping
the country, taking nothing but gentle stock. These they bucked in
strings, and led. That made easy trailing, as each string left a
distinct trail. The moon was splendid that night, and we trailed as
easily as though it had been day. We didn't halt all night long on
either trail, pegging along at a steady gait, that would carry us
inland some distance before morning. Our scouts aroused every
ranch within miles that we passed on the way, only to have reports
exaggerated as usual. One thing we did learn that night, and that
was that the robbers were led by a white man. He was described in
the superlatives that the Spanish language possesses abundantly;
everything from the horse he rode to the solid braid on his sombrero
was described in the same strain. But that kind of prize was the kind
we were looking for.

"On the head of the Arroyo Colorado there is a broken country
interspersed with glades and large openings. We felt very sure that
the robbers would make camp somewhere in that country. When day broke
the freshness of the trail surprised and pleased us. They couldn't be
far away. Before an hour passed, we noticed a smoke cloud hanging low
in the morning air about a mile ahead. We dismounted and securely tied
our horses and pack stock. Every man took all the cartridges he could
use, and was itching for the chance to use them. We left the trail,
and to conceal ourselves took to the brush or dry arroyos as a
protection against alarming the quarry. They were a quarter of a mile
off when we first sighted them. We began to think the reports were
right, for there seemed no end of horses, and at least twenty-five
men. By dropping back we could gain one of those dry arroyos which
would bring us within one hundred yards of their camp. A young fellow
by the name of Rusou, a crack shot, was acting captain in the absence
of our officers. As we backed into the arroyo he said to us, 'If
there's a white man there, leave him to me.' We were all satisfied
that he would be cared for properly at Rusou's hands, and silence gave
consent.

"Opposite the camp we wormed out of the arroyo like a skirmish line,
hugging the ground for the one remaining little knoll between the
robbers and ourselves. I was within a few feet of Rusou as we sighted
the camp about seventy-five yards distant. We were trying to make out
a man that was asleep, at least he had his hat over his face, lying on
a blanket with his head in a saddle. We concluded he was a white man,
if there was one. Our survey of their camp was cut short by two shots
fired at us by two pickets of theirs posted to our left about one
hundred yards. No one was hit, but the sleeping man jumped to his feet
with a six-shooter in each hand. I heard Rusou say to himself, 'You're
too late, my friend.' His carbine spoke, and the fellow fell forward,
firing both guns into the ground at his feet as he went down.

"Then the stuff was off and she opened up in earnest. They fought all
right. I was on my knee pumping lead for dear life, and as I threw my
carbine down to refill the magazine, a bullet struck it in the heel of
the magazine with sufficient force to knock me backward. I thought I
was hit for an instant, but it passed away in a moment. When I tried
to work the lever I saw that my carbine was ruined. I called to the
boys to notice a fellow with black whiskers who was shooting from
behind his horse. He would shoot over and under alternately. I
thought he was shooting at me. I threw down my carbine and drew my
six-shooter. Just then I got a plug in the shoulder, and things
got dizzy and dark. It caught me an inch above the nipple, ranging
upward,--shooting from under, you see. But some of the boys must have
noticed him, for he decorated the scene badly leaded, when it was
over. I was unconscious for a few minutes, and when I came around the
fight had ended.

"During the few brief moments that I was knocked out, our boys had
closed in on them and mixed it with them at short range. The thieves
took to such horses as they could lay their hands on, and one fellow
went no farther. A six-shooter halted him at fifty yards. The boys
rounded up over a hundred horses, each one with a fiber grass halter
on, besides killing over twenty wounded ones to put them out of their
misery.

"It was a nasty fight. Two of our own boys were killed and three were
wounded. But then you ought to have seen the other fellows; we took no
prisoners that day. Nine men lay dead. Horses were dead and dying all
around, and the wounded ones were crying in agony.

"This white man proved to be a typical dandy, a queer leader for such
a gang. He was dressed in buckskin throughout, while his sombrero was
as fine as money could buy. You can know it was a fine one, for it
was sold for company prize money, and brought three hundred and fifty
dollars. He had nearly four thousand dollars on his person and in his
saddle. A belt which we found on him had eleven hundred in bills and
six hundred in good old yellow gold. The silver in the saddle was
mixed, Mexican and American about equally.

"He had as fine a gold watch in his pocket as you ever saw, while his
firearms and saddle were beauties. He was a dandy all right, and a
fine-looking man, over six feet tall, with swarthy complexion and hair
like a raven's wing. He was too nice a man for the company he was in.
We looked the 'Black Book' over afterward for any description of
him. At that time there were over four thousand criminals and outlaws
described in it, but there was no description that would fit him.
For this reason we supposed that he must live far in the interior of
Mexico.

"Our saddle stock was brought up, and our wounded were bandaged as
best they could be. My wound was the worst, so they concluded to send
me back. One of the boys went with me, and we made a fifty-mile ride
before we got medical attention. While I was in the hospital I got my
divvy of the prize money, something over four hundred dollars."

When Ramrod had finished his narrative, he was compelled to submit to
a cross-examination at the hands of Cushion-foot, for he delighted
in a skirmish. All his questions being satisfactorily answered,
Cushion-foot drew up his saddle alongside of where Ramrod lay
stretched on a blanket, and seated himself. This was a signal to the
rest of us that he had a story, so we drew near, for he spoke so low
that you must be near to hear him. His years on the frontier were rich
in experience, though he seldom referred to them.

Addressing himself to Ramrod, he began: "You might live amongst these
border Mexicans all your life and think you knew them; but every day
you live you'll see new features about them. You can't calculate
on them with any certainty. What they ought to do by any system of
reasoning they never do. They will steal an article and then give it
away. You've heard the expression 'robbing Peter to pay Paul.' Well,
my brother played the role of Paul once himself. It was out in Arizona
at a place called Las Palomas. He was a stripling of a boy, but could
palaver Spanish in a manner that would make a Mexican ashamed of his
ancestry. He was about eighteen at this time and was working in a
store. One morning as he stepped outside the store, where he slept,
he noticed quite a commotion over around the custom-house. He noticed
that the town was full of strangers, as he crossed over toward the
crowd. He was suddenly halted and searched by a group of strange men.
Fortunately he had no arms on him, and his ability to talk to them,
together with his boyish looks, ingratiated him in their favor, and
they simply made him their prisoner. Just at that moment an alcalde
rode up to the group about him, and was ordered to halt. He saw at a
glance they were revolutionists, and whirling his mount attempted to
escape, when one of them shot him from his horse. The young fellow
then saw what he was into.

"They called themselves Timochis. They belonged in Mexico, and a year
or so before they refused to pay taxes that the Mexican government
levied on them, and rebelled. Their own government sent soldiers after
them, resulting in about eight hundred soldiers being killed, when
they dispersed into small bands, one of which was paying Las Palomas a
social call that morning. Along the Rio Grande it is only a short
step at best from revolution to robbery, and either calling has its
variations.

"Well, they took my brother with them to act as spokesman in looting
the town. The custom-house was a desired prize, and when my brother
interpreted their desires to the collector, he consented to open
the safe, as life had charms for him, even in Arizona. Uncle Sam's
strong-box yielded up over a thousand dobes. They turned their
attention to the few small stores of the town, looting them of the
money and goods as they went. There was quite a large store kept by a
Frenchman, who refused to open, when he realized that the Timochi was
honoring the town with his presence. They put the boy in the front
and ordered him to call on the Frenchman to open up. He said afterward
that he put in a word for himself, telling him not to do any shooting
through the door. After some persuasion the store was opened and
proved to be quite a prize. Then they turned their attention to the
store where the boy worked. He unlocked it and waved them in. He went
into the cellar and brought up half a dozen bottles of imported French
Cognac, and invited the chief bandit and his followers to be good
enough to join him. In the mean time they had piled up on the counters
such things as they wanted. They made no money demand on him, the
chief asking him to set a price on the things they were taking. He
made a hasty inventory of the goods and gave the chief the figures,
about one hundred and ten dollars. The chief opened a sack that they
had taken from the custom-house and paid the bill with a flourish.

"The chief then said that he had a favor to ask: that my brother
should cheer for the revolutionists, to identify him as a friend. That
was easy, so he mounted the counter and gave three cheers of 'Viva los
Timochis!' He got down off the counter, took the bandit by the arm,
and led him to the rear, where with glasses in the air they drank to
'Viva los Timochis!' again. Then the chief and his men withdrew and
recrossed the river. It was the best day's trade he had had in a long
time. Now, here comes in the native. While the boy did everything
from compulsion and policy, the native element looked upon him with
suspicion. The owners of the store, knowing that this suspicion
existed, advised him to leave, and he did."

The two prisoners were sleeping soundly. Sleep comes easily to tired
men, and soon all but the solitary guard were wrapped in sleep, to
fight anew in rangers' dreams scathless battles!

* * * * *

There was not lacking the pathetic shade in the redemption of this
State from crime and lawlessness. In the village burying-ground of
Round Rock, Texas, is a simple headstone devoid of any lettering save
the name "Sam Bass." His long career of crime and lawlessness would
fill a good-sized volume. He met his death at the hands of Texas
Rangers. Years afterward a woman, with all the delicacy of her sex,
and knowing the odium that was attached to his career, came to this
town from her home in the North and sought out his grave. As only a
woman can, when some strong tie of affection binds, this woman went to
work to mark the last resting-place of the wayward man. Concealing her
own identity, she performed these sacred rites, clothing in mystery
her relation to the criminal. The people of the village would not have
withheld their services in well-meant friendship, but she shrank from
them, being a stranger.

A year passed, and she came again. This time she brought the stone
which marks his last resting-place. The chivalry of this generous
people was aroused in admiration of a woman that would defy the
calumny attached to an outlaw. While she would have shrunk from
kindness, had she been permitted, such devotion could not go
unchallenged. So she disclosed her identity.

She was his sister.

Bass was Northern born, and this sister was the wife of a respectable
practicing physician in Indiana. Womanlike, her love for a wayward
brother followed him beyond his disgraceful end. With her own hands
she performed an act that has few equals, as a testimony of love and
affection for her own.

For many years afterward she came annually, her timidity having worn
away after the generous reception accorded her at the hands of a
hospitable people.